Theater Macabre (22 page)

Is he showing signs of life?
Have you checked him for a pulse? If you have anything you can cover him with then do so…

The operator had referred to the victim as
him
.

How the hell had she known the victim was male? Louis was certain he hadn’t mentioned it, unless of course it was something emergency operators always used to refer to the victim.

He wasn’t sure and the uncertainty made him uneasy.

That’s what you get for calling 9-1-2
, his mind taunted.

And what the hell had
that
been about? Some kind of morbid joke the operators sometimes used to liven up their miserable existences or an innocent slip of the tongue?

He gently replaced the receiver and wrapped his coat around himself. Nudging open the door, he looked cautiously around as if expecting the bloodied victim to come barreling towards him, shrieking and wailing like something from a horror flick.

The streets remained silent apart from the steady hiss of the rain against the road.

Louis moved to the edge of the sidewalk and stared down at the spot where the body had lain only moments before. The rain had washed away the blood, if indeed there had ever been any.

He frowned. Had he imagined the whole thing?

Ordinarily he would have been able to blame the ordeal on one too many at Hatchum’s Bar, but not tonight, not on the night where he was begging for something to blame. Tonight he had gone to the library to check his e-mail now that his own computer had given up the ghost and made straight for home, hoping to beat the rain.

He hadn’t and now he found himself soaked to the skin and staring down at the ground where a few minutes ago someone had been dying…or dead.

This is nuts. Or else
I’m
nuts, one or the other.

But wasn’t it possible that the man just hadn’t been as badly injured as Louis had initially suspected? After all, he was in no way trained to give an opinion. The guy had just
seemed
to be in pretty ugly shape and all that blood…

Quit deluding yourself. He was as dead as a doornail and he got tired of waiting for you to do something, so he hauled his own ass down to the hospital instead of hanging on for 9-1-2.

9-1-2.
Had he really heard the operator say that? If so, had he dialed the wrong number?

Impossible. Surely he would have heard an automated voice telling him he was a dipshit and to please try again and not an operator asking him…

Nine-one-two. What is your emergency?

He stalked back to the phone booth and grabbed the receiver. With a deep breath for punctuation, he muttered the numbers as he dialed, ensuring that this time there could be no mistake.

Nine. One. Two.

The phone rang once, twice and then: “Nine-one-two. What is your emergency?”

Jesus Christ!
He almost dropped the phone. What the hell was going on? Was this a joke someone was playing on him? Would he spin around in a moment only to see a smiling host and the bulging glass eyes of a half dozen cameras? He didn’t think so and before he could think what to do next, the voice of the operator filled his ear. “You never left your name.”

This time he slammed down the phone hard enough to crack the earpiece. This was crazy. Surely it was illegal for someone to use 9-1-2 as an emergency number?

Without thinking, he picked the phone up again and dialed the number carefully. Nine. One. One.

“Nine-one-two. WE’RE COMING FOR YOUUUU!” a voice shrieked and Louis screamed, the phone flying from his hand as if it had turned into a snake. Half staggering from the booth, the maniacal taunting still flooding from the dark ring of holes in the dangling receiver, he looked frantically around for someone who could help him. All the while he told himself he had nothing to be afraid of, that this was simply someone’s twisted idea of a joke and all they could do was frighten him over the phone.

“No, I dialed the proper number that time,” he said aloud as he began to run towards the intersection at the top of Braddock and Third, “I dialed nine-one-fucking-one!”

Sir, I’d like to ask you to stay with the victim until someone gets to you.

Oh they were getting to him all right and he made a solemn vow to find out who was behind this charade and kick their ass to high Heaven.

He splashed through the puddles until he reached the lights and only then did he stop for breath.

Where the hell are all the cars? Where the hell are all the
people?

The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that he was being set up. Empty streets at ten-thirty at night? Taunting voices on the phone, a body that gets up and walks? It sounded like an elaborate prank, maybe even one he’d have been proud to be associated with.

If played on someone other than him.

But he couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to do something like that to him, or could afford to.

It couldn’t have been cheap to rig the phone and hire the stuntmen, could it?

Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed.

The sodium-hued sky above continued to batter him with rain and he began to shiver uncontrollably. As the sirens grew closer, his fear escalated into stark panic.

I could be wrong. If I am, then they’re coming for me.

In an instant he was running, paying no attention to the glowing red man who told him he should stay where he was.

Like the hull of a ship suddenly bursting through the fog, a silver Mercedes appeared to his right and plowed into him, sending him spinning up and over the roof of the car. The world revolved much faster than he had ever thought possible as he yelled soundlessly, his saturated hair whipping against his face as he was torn through the air in the hands of an invisible giant.

The ground rose to meet him and he smacked against it, moaning as it moved away and came back with less force than before. His scream was feeble compared to that of the car as its wheels spun wildly, sending plumes of smoke billowing into the air only to be snatched away in ragged strips by the rain.

Eventually the sound of the engine dwindled away to nothing as the car melted into the shadows of the night.

It was hard to breathe and Louis found himself wanting to cry, scream, yell, anything that would prove he was alive. But the darkness was growing wings that fluttered over his face until even the rain falling in his eyes didn’t inspire him to blink.

Helluva joke,
he thought as his head began to grow heavy and tilted to the right.

In a curiously nonchalant gesture, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his yellow trench coat and forced a grin as in the periphery of his vision, a man dressed somewhat similarly to him dashed into the phone booth to report the accident.

Louis, fading fast, nevertheless had time to hope the guy would get the number right, before the rain filled his eyes.

About the Authors

Kealan Patrick Burke
is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
The Turtle Boy
,
The Hides
,
Vessels
,
Kin
,
Midlisters
,
Master of the Moors
,
Ravenous Ghosts
,
The Number 121 to Pennsylvania & Others
,
Currency of Souls
,
Seldom Seen in August
, and
Jack & Jill
.

Visit him on the web at: http://www.kealanpatrickburke.com or http://kealanpatrick.wordpress.com.